The Groaning Board by Annette Meyers Page B

intrigued
her when he walked away from Wall Street to become a Broadway producer.
    “Done it again to you, has she?”
Carlos said, at Wetzon’s shoulder. He waved to Arthur Margolies, Esquire, his
lover, who had just arrived.
    Wetzon gave Arthur a quick kiss, then
scooped up a handful of Cheez Doodles and a glass of Perrier. She returned to
her seat next to Micklynn, who was sipping a glass of wine.
    “Sorry about that,” she told
Micklynn.
    “Please, don’t be. I find I’m an
expert in partnership relationships. Been there, done that, so to speak.”
Micklynn finished her wine and set the empty glass on the floor near her feet.
She was wearing Birkenstock sandals; her feet were bare. “I have often prepared
the most lethal of poisons in the most succulent of offerings... figuratively,
of course.”

Chapter Twenty-One

     
     
     
    After Wetzon
was able to squirrel away her anger and listen, she was charmed by the music, by the
lyrics, by the whole performance. For the most part, Lesser played and
Carpenter sang and did brief, delicious riffs of book material in between
numbers.
    How had Smith found them?
    “They found me—us, sugar,” Smith told
Wetzon when the performance concluded. She had her arms around each.
    Marian, Ezra, I want you to meet
Leslie Wetzon.”
    “ Ah,”
Carpenter said, “the silent partner. We wondered about you.”
    “Really, Ezra, sweetie, you could
have asked me,” Smith said peevishly. “I thought I told you how busy Wetzon was
seeing to the renovation of our office.”
    “That’s me,” Wetzon said, “office
slave, chained to the desk. So busy that I guess I just didn’t hear Smith tell
me all about you two. Happy to meet you... finally.” Had Wetzon’s eyes been
blowguns, Smith would have been a pincushion of poisoned darts.
    Lesser, who had short dark hair and a
humorous mouth, raised an eyebrow. “Ez, we only have the sitter till seven.
    “Wonderful, guys,” Carlos said,
shaking hands all around. “I love the material. We’ll talk.”
    “Call me, “ Smith said
pointedly.
    “Why, Xenia, darling, would you think
I wouldn’t?” Carlos’ delivery was so arch that Wetzon laughed. “Come on,
Birdie, Arthur and I are taking you to dinner.” Arm draped over her shoulder,
he drew her aside. “You look a mite peak-ed.”
    “Pissed is a much better word. My partner is sneaking
around behind my back and my lover has moved out.”
    “Oy.” He nuzzled her cheek. “Come
have dinner and tell us all about it.”
    “Can’t talk yet. Too raw.”
    “About the Barracuda, Dear Heart, I
wouldn’t let it concern you. She has no taste.”
    “Then how did she find Lesser and
Carpenter?”
    “God gave Mark Smith all the taste in
that family. Lesser’s kid brother is at Harvard with Mark.”
    “Why is Mort Hornberg here?”
    Carlos studied the ceiling. He was so
intent that Wetzon took his shoulders and shook him gently. “You’re not.”
    “I am.” He couldn’t look her in the
eye.
    “But after what he did to you on the Hotshot movie? Oh, Carlos.”
    “Arthur’s doing the contract. It’ll
be rock-solid this time.’ “Oh, sure.” She turned Carlos and gave him a push.
“Go on, Arthur’s waiting.”
    Wetzon wandered back to Smith, who
was walking around like a goddam producer, thanking everyone for coming. Lesser
and Carpenter had disappeared.
    When Smith got to Wetzon, she was on
such a roll, she almost thanked Wetzon for coming too. Instead, she snapped her
fingers and said, “Fifteen thou.”
    “For what?”
    “That’s what they paid us. Lesser and
Carpenter. It’s a retainer. We represent them.”
    “We’re not agents, Smith.”
    “We’re managers, babycakes. Agents
only get ten to fifteen percent. Managers can ask for as much as they want. We
get twenty-five percent of any income related to this score. How do you like
that?”
    “It sounds a little exorbitant, but it’s
fine, I guess, if we do the work. The real question is, do we want to